at moonfall
by Emporia Nexus
Summary: Sōten Kisshun, I reject. — an ongoing collection of one-shots, following a misshapen ghost and an unrepentant human.
1. the body sown

**chapter title:** the body sown  
 **summary:** in the after-afterlife, Ulquiorra continues to ponder upon the meaning of a heart.  
 **raw word count:** 835  
 **notes:** the (chapter) title is taken from 1 Corinthians 15:42-44.

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it's so hazy, this alien place he finds his body in. antiseptic, almost; at once as sterile and as strange as a mortuary chapel.

he counts his fingers: _one, two, three, four_ —

and then the clenched fist of five makes him remember.

"I died," he tells the empty space. the desolation doesn't answer back.

only the moon, too high up to even glimpse, bathes him in gentle waves of effulgence.

Ulquiorra walks.

the more he does, the fainter the horizon grows.

he allows himself to take in the scenery, and frowns when he finds that the sight doesn't quite register. this world is sandless, that much his feet know — and yet it all slips through his fingers, just the same.

in the strangest way, it makes him miss Hueco Mundo: miss its' sloping plains and their impossible geometry and the way the ever-present, coarse white sand clung to his skin. for a ghost world, it had _substance_. nothing felt more real than bleeding out and drowning in its' endless night.

here, _nothing_ feels real.

 _ _And p__ _ _erhaps none of it is.__

he touches his chest, and startles when he finds his hollow hole to be constructed of solid bone and muscle.

"How mystifying," he murmurs, genuinely caught off-guard. his skin is still the same chalk-white; so why?

 _What prompted such reverse to humanity?_

oh, how very wondrous all of it is.

he paws at the base of his throat, tentative; pressing down with the pads of his fingers, palpating the outline of clavicle-heads and the tense breadth of sternocleidomastoidian nerve — yet all of him remains strangely whole, despite his growing insistence. as the bare world answers no inquiry, the whole of the wonder is his and his alone.

he walks on.

faintly, he catches a far-flung whiff of the sea; the salt of it fizzes out on his tongue, burning momentarily. the sense of unknown deepens, lowering over him like the folds of a shroud. he starts eastward, following his nose — inexplicably and inexorably drawn toward the unseen waves.

it dawns on him, midway: "I have acquired a heart."

and all at once that woman's face fills up his mind: its' delicate bone-structure, the contours of it gentle and hearty; the sun-kissed skin mantled across it, a rosé flush dusting the cheeks; those large, expressive brown eyes; her small, red mouth.

 _I think I loved her._

the world encircling him swirls, then; and in a singular moment of absolute clarity, its' features are revealed to him in vivid technicolor. it is soon almost wholly erased from memory — all but a smudge of brilliant blue, lapping serenely at the ever-distant horizon.

he closes his eyes, content to simply feel as his body is prised and disintegrated.

his last coherent thought is:

 _I wonder where to will the dust of me be returned. The soil of some distant star, perhaps._

he does not dare hope, despite his newfound heart yearning so achingly for a certain place; and the velvetine mouth of oblivion clamps shut around him before the warring within can declare any victor. what follows it is a period of drifting — the essence of him afloat for what feels like forever and a half, amorphous and only dimly aware of everything but _being._

and then, at last, the miracle happens.

faintly, a familiar voice calls out his name: insistent yet clement, halfway between a plea and a prayer.

"Ulquiorra? Ulquiorra."

his eyelids feel so very heavy; febrile, too. it takes a while to will them open, and when at last they are, the world is slow to come into focus.

"...are you alright?"

that same voice. _Where have I heard it before?_ his eyes dart, uncertain.

"Where am I?"

a floral scent fills his lungs, and all of a sudden he is hyper-aware of the woman hovering by his bedside.

"Las Noches," Orihime says, her upper body bowed above him. she tucks a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, half-absent. "I had you brought in." here she pauses, peering at him with her lower lip sucked back between her teeth in an expression of such clear concern that the word is all but written on her forehead. " _Are_ you alright?"

his hands cup her face before he even has a chance to register that he _wants_ to do it; fingers trembling, the whole of him brought to paroxysm by sheer relief. he lets his thumbs trail down the curve of her cheeks, committing their contour to the memory of that surreal thing called heart.

he feels it beat in response, pounding against the walls of his ears.

"Yes," he says. "I am quite alright, now."

her small hands lower over his; and she is so impossibly warm, the whole sun caught in a person. how had he never noticed that, before? when her lips unfurl in a smile, the radiance of it is almost enough to blind him.

"I'm glad," she whispers, giving his wrists a light squeeze. "I'm so very glad, you've no idea."

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* * *

 _ **fin.**_


	2. the star-split lovers

**chapter title:** the star-split lovers  
 **summary:** sometimes, the gods are kind.  
 **raw word count:** 590  
 **notes:** this one is a little different — i re-imagined the legend behind the Tanabata festival.

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slender fingers move across the loom, playing through its' strings with a grace that is almost musical; threading the fine spun silk into an airy length of raw, undyed fabric.

outside the tall windows a lone seagull cries, reverberating through the delta. the maiden pauses her weaving, turning to search for it — and smiles a knowing, wistful smile when she sees it fly with its' wings dipped in the clear waters of the Silver River.

 _Oh, how I wish I too had wings._

the moment stretches and then simmers, fizzing out like dust in the sunlight until it fades altogether. she resumes her work, an old song tucked beneath the tongue.

" _Sasa no ha sara sara..._ "

the seventh day approaches, carrying with it the scent of her lover; and so with steady hands she knots her prayers into the weaving, heart a taiko drum aflame.

"Ah, I hope it's sunny..."

outside, the seagull weeps anew.

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on the other side of the river, the shepherd stops to rest his feet, seating on a boulder. the lambs all flock to him; and from above they seem a sea of juvenile white clouds, floating serene towards a bright dark star. he pulls out his flute — and eyes greener than the grass slide closed.

slowly, he plays; the song of him, steeped in sorrow.

one by one the notes drip out, as languid as dew is slipping off bamboo at dawn.

 _Poor thing,_ the lambs chorus in their arcane tongue. _How much his soul yearns out for her. Poor thing; oh, the poor thing._

yet there is beauty to his lament; and high in heaven the sun smiles, tucking a thought into the corners of her mouth.

unaware, the shepherd entrusts to the wind his hidden heart — a prayer made with lips ablaze through soulfelt song, from the lonesome strains etching his lover's portrait.

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the crawl of days is slow; but at last the promised dawn arrives, bathed in gold-and-lilac splendor.

way down below, the mortals have already begun their celebrations.

bare feet bathed by the river, the maiden stretches out her hand — and thousand magpies gather at the signal, their azure wings a brilliant hue beneath the clear, open sky.

"Please," she says, and they carpet the water.

she crosses banks atop them, keeping her steps light so as to not hurt the little aides. ashiver, her heart pounds.

 _Hikoboshi…_

it isn't long before his face, so very dear to her being, comes into view.

once near enough, she thrusts herself into his arms, no longer mindful of anything but her own searing want. her brilliant hair – the color of living, sacred fire – cascades around them, come unbound.

"I missed you," she whispers, fervent. "Oh, how I've missed you."

tight, and yet strangely nerveless, his hands knot at the base of her spine. _I missed you too,_ the gesture seems to say.

head buried in the side of her throat, he breathes her in — leaning their weight into eachother until the edges of their shadows blur and melt into one whole.

he says: "Welcome home, Orihime."

he means: _Allfather, I beg of you to let her stay._

just then —

screaming, the birds scatter in a fright; and as if beckoned, rain begins to fall.

bewildered, the two behold the darkening sky.

"If it holds..." she starts, speaking in hushed tones; "If it holds into the night, then..."

"...then we have a little more time," he finishes.

now wholly veiled, the sun smiles. tacit, she offers them her blessings.

 _Enjoy your hours, star-split ones._

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* * *

 _ **fin.**_


	3. the body reaped

**chapter title:** the body reaped  
 **summary:** Orihime wanders, reviving an old f(r)iend.  
 **raw word count:** 1185  
 **notes:** this is a prequel to _the body sown_.

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reigned by a cruel curve of moon, Hueco Mundo's endless night is a cold, jagged thing; only the sand, omnipresent and halfway alive, seems fit to survive in such a place and call it 'home', but then again, the living things inhabiting Aizen's very own Eden are hardly living to begin with. what they have is more of an unlife than an afterlife. Orihime twists her fist into it and lifts — it's coarse to the touch, but at the same time more fine than she thinks it ought to be. more like ground bone than shattered stone.

 _More like a_ _n arcane_ _cemetery than a_ _paradisal_ _garden._

it slips through her fingers, all the same.

she stands, drawing the cloak tighter around the shoulders until all of her is hidden in the folds. apace, the wind is picking up; a sandstorm nears by the minute, wailing somewhere close on the horizon.

 _I just hope I don't revive the wrong thing; otherwise, this will turn into quite the pinch. Ah..._

sometimes, she really wishes Tatsuki was there.

"Ayame, Shun'ō. If you'd please."

the two fairies fly out, covering the space directly in front of her. she squints at the ground. it seems to be about right.

"Are you sure about this, 'hime?"

she doesn't answer. instead: "Sōten Kisshun—I reject."

the sand is bathed in gold; and underneath the barrier slowly, bit by bit, a body is reconstructed in the light. Orihime finds herself remembering Aizen's words: _powers that tread on the territory of God._ she supposes it's an accurate enough assertion, even though it feels to her that, in a strange way, she's in a league closer to Death.

 _Two sides of the same coin, when you really think about it._

he is still for a while; the only indication of life ( _u_ _nlife,_ her mind needlessly insists) being the steady rise and fall of his chest.

then —

his body convulses, arching off the ground in spasmodic waves, and Orihime can't help but grimace at the sound surging out of his throat. it's a jagged thing, threading the fine line between animalistic and humane — he's howling _,_ long and unbroken, and if there are words in it somewhere, they are wholly unintelligible.

she barely has time to call forth a shield when he lunges.

electric cobalt eyes are looking at her, but she knows they don't _see._ she fleetingly wonders what sort of monster she is in his distorted vision; but nothing that the mind can or may conjure is half as terrible as the truth.

 _I'm a necromancer; a resurrectionist. And he, the rightful owner of his own corpse._

 _...That's so morbid._

so pretentious, too. she almost laughs, and feels her sanity sinking.

"Grimmjow. Grimmjow!"

he only snaps out of it when Tsubaki passes through the hollow in his abdomen.

"Princess," he acknowledges, slow, not understanding.

she breathes in relief, murmuring a quiet thanks to whatever is out there, hovering ominous and omnipotent in the sky.

"What—"

she sees the expletive form on his lips in the shape of a fist.

"—we don't have time," she cuts, and the wind makes her case when it deals an almost physically incapacitating blow. "We _really_ don't."

"Fuck. _Fuck!_ " he runs a rough hand through his hair; the feeling of static clinging to his fingers is oddly grounding. he sucks in a breath. "Fuck. Okay. Let's get the fuck outta here, first. But then you owe me an explanation, and it'd better be a fuckin' good one!"

he scoops her up before she can blink, much less reply, and a deep feeling of deja-vu settles in the pit of her stomach.

last time he did something like this, he had his death wish satisfied.

"Hang on tight, princess," he grits out. the arm curled around the underside of her thighs is too-tight. "I ain't used to carryin' people like this."

"I remember," she mumbles into his chest.

he jumps.

the speed of his Sonído is more than deserving of its' name; she has to shield her face from the cutting force of air currents, tucking her body closer to his torso. his heartbeat – his odds-defying heartbeat – is steady underneath her weight.

 _I did that,_ she thinks. _I remade him._

it's at once horrifying and wondrous.

he maneuvers them out of the storm's most probable path, relying more on years of honed practice than on instinct. it brings back memories — old ones, from a time before he was unmasked. involuntarily, his lips nick into the shape of a wild grin.

 _Oh, this is fuckin' grand._

he takes the nearest high ground, just to make sure: a steep cliff, jutting out of the sands in the shape of a wing-bone to cut up the seamless sky.

"So," Grimmjow starts, ducking into an alcove. he deposits her on the ground, uncharacteristically light-handed. "What's all this about, princess?"

she knots her fingers together. her mouth feels so dry. "It's...kind of a long story."

"I've got nothin' but time."

so she tells him — everything that had transpired between his death and his revival, from Ulquiorra's defeat to the final battle and Aizen's subsequent eternal imprisonment, ending it with Tia's takeover of Las Noches and the armistice with Soul Society.

"So wait," he interrupts, scratching absently at his chest. "If it's a happy fuckin' ending for you lot, why are you still here?"

"...you'll think it's stupid."

"Probably." pause. "Well? C'mon, spit it out."

"I want to stay here."

Grimmjow stares. and stares. and stares. "You're fuckin' mental, you know that?"

she smiles, and it's a sad thing that doesn't sit right in her face. "I've been told."

"No, really, you are. Why the fuck would you want to be here? For fuck's sake, princess, you're _alive_." his eyes narrow in slow, half-formed understanding. "Is this about Kurosaki? 'cause I swear to fuckin' god—"

"It's not about him!" _Except it kind of is._ "It's just—I don't even know!" she buries her face in her hands, stifling a sob. "The Living World just doesn't feel right anymore."

silence stretches and settles around them, a heavy winter mantle.

then, quietly: "Why did you revive me?"

"I didn't want to be alone."

"It's more than that," he presses. "C'mon, princess; what _do_ you want from me?"

"I mean it," she says, looking up at him. in the half-light, the brilliant copper of her hair is dulled down to brown; and despite himself he feels the urge to reach out and touch it. "I didn't want to be alone. And—well. I, um. Need help with something."

 _That's more like it._ "What do you plan on doing?"

"I want to revive Ulquiorra."

"I can't fuckin' believe I'm askin'—" here he pauses to sigh, "—but _why_?"

"There's something I need to verify."

"Something." he drags a hand down his face, feeling a headache setting in. "Princess, this better be about the extent of your powers or some shit and _not_ a fuckin' inter-species love story, or I _swear_ I'm un-reviving."

she smiles, and the edges of it tremble a little.

"It is, isn't it. _God-fuckin-damnit._ "

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* * *

 _ **fin.**_


	4. the twilight zone

**chapter title:** the twilight zone  
 **summary:** in which the world's cheeriest coroner can see ghosts, and love surpasses states of matter.  
 **raw word count:** 780  
 **notes:** the original title for this was "inhuman connection" — incidentally, exactly how you'd describe playing Criminal Minds and Long Island Medium simultaneously (which I was).

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"How did I die?"

the voice is steady, monotone; even when the body lies lifeless on a cold steel slate between the soul and the coroner.

he does not fully expect an answer — yet:

"Note the rope burn," she replies without missing a beat, wholly and unnaturally void of any shock. pointing a gloved finger to the indentations across his neck, she skims their outline for emphasis. "You were hung. The police are currently trying to determine whether or not it was suicide." a pause. "That was too direct, wasn't it? Um." she tugs the surgical mask down under the chin, and he is treated to a view of pale full moon. "I'm Inoue. Do you remember anything?"

he shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright," she says, flashing him a brilliant smile. "It's probably better that way."

"Won't it keep me from moving on?"

"Not necessarily," she says, and goes to snap the mask back into place. "I need to open you up now—you might, ah, want to turn around."

he doesn't.

he watches her incise the torso, studying his own guts with an academic mix of interest–indifference when she peels away the flesh covering his ribcage.

"Almost like wings, isn't it?"

"I believe there used to be a sacrificial rite quite similar to this."

"The one with the shoulderblades?"

"Yes."

she hums, shearing his ribs. "Mesoamerican, I think it was. Can't remember if Aztec or not."

carefully, she removes all traces of tissue that ligate bone to flesh. he observes her hands: small palms, but the fingers are long and thin; their movement, self-assured. she is used to her job. she pulls up the severed breastplate with ease.

"You're deceptively strong," he notes, the monotone become respectful.

"Eheh. You think so?" she sets the bone aside, gentle. "I'm really only as strong as I need to be in order to perform my job efficiently."

somehow, he does not fully believe her.

"Say, mister Schiffer—"

"Ulquiorra is just fine, if you'd please. No need to be formal when you have already undressed me."

she actually laughs. "Tit for tat, then; feel free to call me Orihime. Were the circumstances any different I'd say, pleased to meet you, but..."

"It's my pleasure, either way."

"Are you—are you _flirting_ with me?"

"...maybe."

"Oh, that is just _naughty_." she pauses, leaning in to inspect his lungs and heart. "Say, Ulquiorra."

"Hm?"

"Do you think you could have done this to yourself?" deep brown eyes search his face, genuine curiosity in the ply of her eyebrows. "I mean—you seem so _unaffected_ by the whole thing. I've had plenty of ghosts down here in the grotto, but none have ever looked at their own corpse with such clinical disinterest. They've avoided it wholly, really; it's too alien to look down at yourself and know it isn't quite 'you' anymore."

"I wasn't the most psychologically stable individual," he admits. "It should all be on my records."

"I read it. Clinical depression, but no mention of substance abuse since your teens."

he shrugs. "Fifteen was a strange age."

"You were suspect of undifferentiated schizophrenia."

"Likely a schizoaffective disorder, in truth." he stares at the neon bars. "It's possible. Suicide, that is."

"Did you have any enemies?"

"Countless, but I'd be more suspicious of my friends."

"Let's hope the toxicology report will be of some use," Orihime says, sighing softly. "In the meantime, even without opening your skull for signs of cerebral hypoxia, it's safe to say you died asphyxiated."

"No hangman's fracture?"

"Afraid so. Your spine is intact in entirety." she pats the air in the general vicinity of his shoulders, sympathetic. "I'm sorry. It must've been a slow and painful affair."

he is silent for a long time. she continues with the examination, this time turning on the recorder to detail the process; the sound of her voice fills the room, a mellisonant monotone. "The patient is a 28 year old male. Probable cause of death: asphyxiation. He shows clear signs of cardiac arrest and significant damage to the airways..."

he drifts to the lilt of it, body ( _unbody_ ) caught somewhere between partial corporeality and the abyssal endlessness of afterlife.

then —

softly, the recorder clicks shut. "Say, Ulquiorra."

"Hm?"

Orihime snaps her gloves off, discarding them in the hazard bin. her mask follows swiftly.

"How would you like to haunt someplace else? I have to send your samples to the lab, but then I'm off the clock."

he considers, absently rubbing at his nape.

"...depends. Do you happen to have a copy of _Widdershins_ at home? It feels oddly apropos."

"Ooh! I see you are an apparition of excellent taste."

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* * *

 _ **fin.**_


	5. the loving hearth

**chapter title:** the loving hearth  
 **summary:** somewhere at the end of the world, there's a house on a hill.  
 **raw word count:** 825  
 **notes:** domestic fluff? domestic fluff. and no, that is _not_ a typo in the title; just a (very lame) pun.

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he watches her peel apart the pomelo, deft, graceful hands working the knife edge under the seaming of hard skin stretched taut across the pulp. she's got an old song tucked beneath the tongue — something achingly familiar, yet which he cannot wholly place. it sits so lovely around her shoulders, all the same, the sound of it caught in her flaming hair like braided beads of starlight.

far off beyond the window pane waves crash into the cliffside, their death-wail a dull heartbeat.

Ulquiorra breathes, eyes slipping closed.

the misty morning air is thick and cold on his teeth, soaked in salt and the deep earthy scent of the moors. with the sunlit contour of her so close, so _warm_ , the silence blanketing the kitchen becomes halcyonian — he finds himself adrift, stream of consciousness growing thinner as the lull of his breath begins to broaden and even out.

"Now, now," Orihime says, and she is smiling, "no falling asleep at the breakfast table, mister Schiffer."

lazily, he pops open one eye. "Forgive me, mistress Schiffer."

she tuts. "Flattery will get you nowhere, you know—but by all means, do continue."

"Come here, you," he says, and pulls her to him with a tug at the wrist.

she fits so very perfectly in his lap, the soft lip of a thigh cushioned on the jut of his knees and dawn wrapped around her frame in a golden nimbus, love and heaven and forever swimming in her eyes. in the moment, what he feels for her is more than heart-rending tenderness; it is adulation, a sort of worship that neighbors religious reverence.

gently, ever so gently, he presses his lips to the side of her throat in chaste imitation of a kiss.

"I love you," he murmurs, almost as if wanting to imprint it on her skin.

"I love you, too," she says, dipping to nuzzle his forehead. they sit like that for a while, quiet and still, content in their togetherness. then, after a while — "I should get up," she says; "Breakfast cannot make itself."

"Mm." he lets her go, more than just a little mournful.

back at the cutting board, she slices up the pomelo peels into rough bite-sized chunks. in a deep salad bowl, she adds cherry tomatoes, halved; bringing it all together with a generous sprinkle of sugar, mint chopped _grossier_ and honey.

"It will taste good, I promise," she says, not needing to look at him to know the expression of vague distrust plastered across his features.

next, eggs and choice sausage cuts tumble into the sizzling pan.

"I'd like mine on the soft side," he offers, almost shyly.

"Okie-dokie."

she makes it all seem so _easy_ — elevating the simple act of retrieving a lid from the cupboard to an art form. her body is all plump curved lines, poetry in motion.

 _I'll never tire of watching her as she is simply being._

silently, he starts to set the table; never letting the sight of her stray too far away from the corner of his eye as he moves about the kitchen, setting down tableware and cutlery.

"Take the milk carton out of the fridge while you're at it—ah! Apple juice, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

he cannot help but smile. _So bossy._

the burner flame clicks shut, and he holds out the plates for her. their table begins to look like a genuine cornucopia; and silently he gives his thanks for all the good fortune they have been blessed with, first and foremost that of finding one another.

"Pepper?"

"Please."

she ends up being a little too overzealous in grinding it out — he sneezes.

"My, bless you," she says, and rubs comforting circles into the small of his back. "Was that too much?"

"I'm fine." she looks unconvinced; "Really, I am," he insists. "Let's eat."

they take their seats, pulling up the chairs on the same side rather than across from eachother. her salad, while a quaint thought and sight, turns out to be quite delicious, especially when paired with the much heartier main dish and a cut of cheese.

Orihime laughs around her fork, lips pulled back in a wide small that shows the pearl of her teeth. "See? I told you it'd taste just fine."

he kisses her before he has the time to process the intent well enough to change his mind. on her tongue, sunlight tastes like candied citrus; on her lips, like milk and mint, the barest hint of apple. her hands on the underside of his jaw taste wholly of her, though — and he turns his head just so, kissing each of her fingers in slow countdown.

"It does," he whispers.

she flushes, pretty peach pink. "...something tells me you aren't really talking about the salad."

when he laughs, she kisses the breath and sound of it out of his throat, arms snug around his shoulders.

"You're such a _meanie._ "

"Mm. But I'm _your_ meanie, no?"

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* * *

 _ **fin.**_


End file.
